


Welcome Home

by dayindisguise



Series: Drabbles and Ficlets [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Kitchen Sex, M/M, Sexual Relations, Unintentional marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayindisguise/pseuds/dayindisguise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen, and Eames' plush lips were pressed to the pink, slightly-chapped, beloved pair of his husband, his hand sweeping to the curve of Arthur's back, the thumb of his free hand ghosting over the nape of his neck.</p><p>Fifteen...and dinner had gone to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by my beloved Kasia, 7daysofpurrfection on tumblr. Sorry this took so long. <3

Twenty minutes ago, the bowl of marinara was perched on the kitchen island, far from the edge. Eames liked his cooking space to be ample and tidy, and the less likely he was to knock one of the main ingredients off of his workspace, the better. The pasta had been draining in the colander, water dripping from the perforated metal. The faucet hadn't been smacked on by a stray limb, and the pasta wasn't ruined. The ingredients left on the counter had been organized neatly, moved from one side to the other as they were added to the dish, Eames' way of ensuring he didn't miss anything in the process. Like Arthur on a job, Eames was a meticulous cook. He liked what he did, and he did it efficiently and excellently. He would have to eat it later, after all. Arthur's stomach could only hold so much pasta before there was too much whining for Eames to handle.

Nineteen minutes ago, Arthur had walked through the door. Eighteen, and Eames' eyes had lifted to the dark-haired man in the doorway who spoke his name like a prayer and beamed broadly at the Englishman. Seventeen, and Eames was wiping his hands off on the tea towel perched atop his shoulder while Arthur crossed the wide room to embrace his husband. Sixteen, and Eames' plush lips were pressed to the pink, slightly-chapped, beloved pair of his husband, his hand sweeping to the curve of Arthur's back, the thumb of his free hand ghosting over the nape of his neck.

Fifteen...and dinner had gone to hell.

Two months apart, Eames had been planning a delicious dinner for his husband to come home to, replicating the first dish Eames had ever served to the American. Two months apart, and this perfect dinner was shoved aside in favour of open flys and fast-moving hands. Panted breaths against the other's lips, grappling with ties, waistcoats, buttons galore. There would be a long, red mark decorating Arthur's lower back from where he was pressed to the firm edge of the granite countertop by Eames' bulkier figure, unrelenting in his pressure and dire need to feel Arthur against him. Arthur would have a bruise on the back of his hand in the morning from where he'd smacked the cold water tap on, Eames' plush lips wrapped around the head of his cock reminding him of prominent reasons he missed being home.The red mark would be a line of bruises on Arthur's front from the countertop where Eames had bent Arthur over, tasting him with his tongue and making him squirm and cry out before filling him the way he needed to. The way Arthur needed him to.

Two hours later, the marinara and broken bowl were still splattered on the pristine tile, though this time the red marks were wrapped around Arthur's wrists from the silk ties Eames kept in the bedside drawer. Two months apart, this was a far better 'Welcome Home' than any pasta dish.


End file.
